the cat report

Based on the dire reports I'd been hearing about Mozart, the family cat, while I was in Korea, I was sure that the beast was on the brink of death. I kept hearing about how he was losing teeth, about how painful it was for him to chew even soft food, about how sensitive he was becoming to the cold.

The animal that greeted me upon my arrival in Alexandria was nothing like the twisted, wheezing, skeletal creature I'd been imagining. Mozart the cat is old, yes, and thinner than I remember, but he's still a fairly healthy, meow-ful cat. As always, he likes sitting on the dryer in our basement laundry room: it's his throne. Mozart still begs for warm milk (which is served in very small quantities because it gives him the runs: I think the cat has East Asian blood, given his lactose intolerance). He still likes pretending that he's ignoring you, even while he purrs in delight because you're talking about him. Unlike our dog, who became bitter and nasty in his old age, the cat seems only to have mellowed further.

Mozart was named Mozart for his musical meow. He still meows a lot, and when you feed him, he still sits on command-- something I'd trained him to do years ago, much to Dad's disapproval.

Yesterday, Dad went to the kitchen, brought out some catnip, and spread the magic herb on a napkin. We then walked over to the living room. "This is Mozart's getting-high corner," Dad informed me. He placed the catnipped napkin on the floor and stepped back. We watched our ancient animal zoom over to the napkin and begin chewing lustily on the catnip.

Barely a minute later, the cat was tripping. Mozart flopped over on one side and purred loudly, but his one eye was dilated and his ears showed he'd become sensitive to every single noise in the house. Dad said, "Hey-- watch this," then grabbed a nearby pet brush and dropped it next to Mozart. The cat whipped around and seized the brush.

What followed was almost too bizarre to explain. The cat... wrestled the brush. Mozart hugged the brush in his forepaws while his hind legs attempted to shred it. He bit the brush repeatedly and acted as if it were trying to get away. Dad cackled, as did I. The cat took no notice of the humans: the brush obviously needed eviscerating, and nothing could stop Mozart from accomplishing this vital mission.

I'm tempted to wander the shabbier parts of Old Town Alexandria in search of a drug dealer. Score some dope, bring it home, and shoot the cat up. Take video. Post video on blog. That would beat the hell out of every other type of catblogging out there: You think your cat's cute? Well, mine's fucked up on coke! LOOK!

Yes... something to do before I leave these United States. Get my cat high.

Oh, yeah: Mozart did recognize me when I stumbled in on Sunday evening. He might be periodically spaced, but he's not senile yet.

UPDATE: Remember this poem?

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